


Sanctuary

by pasiphile



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Five Times, M/M, Sleep, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-04
Updated: 2014-08-04
Packaged: 2018-02-11 18:08:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2077989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pasiphile/pseuds/pasiphile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Jim and Sebastian catch each other sleeping – and one time they don't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sanctuary

**Author's Note:**

> thank you to koni for betaing!

1

Moran had fallen asleep.

Normally such a blatant display of neglect of duty would have resulted in the perpetrator’s death, but this time Jim was willing to make an exception. After all, Moran had been stationed here for over ten hours, after a whole week of constant work that had left him an average of maybe four hours sleep every night.

Still, he shouldn't be allowed to get away with it without at least a bit of a fright.

Jim cocked his head and studied his sleeping henchman. He didn’t look completely relaxed: there was a furrow between his eyebrows, tension in his shoulders. He looked like one of those big cats, dozing after a meal of shredded antelope, rather than a man taking a quick nap.

Jim stepped a little closer. The weather had been hot for a few days and Moran had only put on an old, thin, shapeless t-shirt. He could see Moran’s stomach rise and fall in time with his slow, steady breathing. It was oddly hypnotising.

Jim shook himself. No matter how pretty the sight of his napping bodyguard was, there was still work to be done. He nudged Moran’s shoulder with his foot.

Moran’s eyes snapped open. Without even taking a breath he kicked out at Jim’s legs, making him lose balance and fall to the floor with a bone-shuddering thud. The next second Moran was straddling him, one hard forearm pressing hard against his windpipe, the other hand pinning Jim’s wrist down.

Jim gasped for air that couldn’t pass through his compressed throat and struggled feebly against Moran’s steel grip.

Moran blinked. His eyes went wide. “Shit,” he said. He let go off Jim’s throat as if burned and rolled off him. “Shit,” he said, again, sounding a little breathless.

Jim sat up and carefully felt his throat. Not that painful, all things considered. Although it was quite likely there would be visible bruises – but no matter, he’d been using cover makeup since he was thirteen, he knew how to hide things he didn’t want the world to see.

Moran had sat up as well. “Sorry about that, sir,” he said nervously.

“Don’t be,” Jim said, letting go of his throat. “That was entirely instinctual, wasn’t it? No conscious thought involved.”

“Yeah,” Moran said. He put his hand flat on the concrete floor and hopped up. “You know what they say about sneaking up to a sleeping Marine on your own peril? Same goes for the SAS. We were pretty much conditioned.” He paused and tilted his head, looking down at Jim, who was still sitting. “Everything alright, sir?” he asked.

“Of course.” He stood up, a little less explosively than Moran had done, and put his hands in his pockets.

“Sorry,” Moran said, rubbing the back of his neck. “Like you said, it’s not something I do consciously.”

“And what’s the point of apologising for something you don’t have control over? Go on then.” Jim jerked his chin at the other room, the one with the vantage point. “Work to do. I don’t pay you for napping, you know,” he added, waspishly.

“No-o,” Moran said, unfazed. “You pay me to do my job efficiently, which means me knowing when lack of sleep would fuck up my performance and doing something about it. You gonna come and watch, sir?”

Jim nodded. “In a minute. Wait until I’m there.”

Moran dropped his arms and went to the room next door. Jim waited until the door was closed and the sound of footsteps had faded, and then he dropped down heavily on the floor, back against the rough brick of the wall.

He looked at his hands. _Adrenaline_ , he told himself sternly. _Pure biochemistry_.

That didn’t stop them shaking, though.

 

 

2

There was something strangely, almost voyeuristically intimate about watching someone else sleep. The ultimate vulnerability: they weren’t even aware of being watched, unable to defend themselves. Occupied with nothing but their own thoughts, their imagination.

And Jim looked about ten years younger when he was asleep.

It was, Sebastian thought, probably in the eyes. Jim’s eyes tended to draw attention to themselves, expressive as they were. Seb had seen death threats in those eyes, and mirthful cruelty and terrifying calculating intelligence, and a cold dead blankness that was far worse than any of all those other expressions combined.

But with those eyes covered by pale eyelids, Jim looked almost normal. Young, soft, a little bland. _Vulnerable_ was the word that kept popping up in Seb's mind, which was absurd; Jim Moriarty simply didn’t do vulnerability.

And yet.

Jim made a small noise and tossed his head. He was frowning, and his fingers were clenched around the blankets, knuckles white. Nightmares again. More than once Seb had woken up to find Jim sitting up, staring into the distance, unresponsive for several minutes until he shivered and blinked and came back to himself. Nightmares were something he'd grown used to.

Seb carefully traced the line of Jim’s jaw. For a second or two, the tension around Jim’s mouth seemed to relax, but then he groaned again and pulled his head from Seb’s careful touch.

Seb pulled his hand back and rolled onto his stomach, still watching. Jim's eyes were moving rapidly beneath his eyelids and his fingers had gone tight again. An intensely private struggle, it was, and even though he didn’t have any clue as to what was causing it, what was going on in Jim’s head, it still felt intrusive, watching him the way he was. Yeah, Jim had invited Seb into his bed himself, but would he even be aware of what he looked like when he was like this?

Probably, though, because Jim was _Jim_ , even when caught in solipsistic torture.

Seb turned around again, put his hand on Jim’s hip – more to reassure himself than to give Jim any solace – and closed his eyes.

Nothing he could do to help here.

 

 

3

The monitor's beeps were grinding through Jim's skull, counterpointed by the soft drip of the morphine. He gritted his teeth and checked his watch again. Still at least an hour to go, according to the nurse, but Sebastian had always had a habit of being sturdier than people expected. Even if it did sometimes take some prodding.

He looked _pale_ , Sebastian, bloodless, his eyelids having a bruised look, lips almost blue. _He's lost a lot of blood_ , they'd said.

Jim had pushed, of course, asked until one of them admitted _maybe a minute later and_ -

And then they'd paused, as if they were afraid that saying the words might bring the thing to pass after all.

A noise. Jim opened his eyes. Sebastian's little finger curled, and then relaxed again.

Jim leaned back and smiled, sourly. Sebastian would be insufferable when he woke up. Like Jim, Seb deeply hatedpainkillers and the effect they had on his mind, and right now he was, as one of the nurses had eloquently put it, _under enough morphine to knock out a cow_.

Or rather, he had been until five minutes ago, when Jim had sabotaged the drip.

Sebastian was frowning now, no trace left of that odd too-soft doughy expression. He looked a bit more like his usual self again, which was a relief to see. Not having Sebastian around was – well, it made a lot of things inconvenient.

Pressure points. Funny how that went.

Jim looked up again. Seb's eyes were open, focused on the ceiling.

“Evening,” Jim said, cheerfully.

Seb blinked and slowly rolled his head on the pillow. The beep of the monitor increased in tempo. Seb licked his lips and opened his mouth. “Wh-” he croaked, and then had to stop when his throat refused cooperation.

Jim rolled his eyes and stood up. “You were shot,” he told Sebastian, pouring a glass of water. “You were found a little too late for my liking – the people responsible for that have been dealt with, by the way – and you've had to have a blood transfusion. Among other things.”

Jim sat on the side on the bed and supported Seb's head while he drank. Seb was still watching him with a strange focus, too fixed for someone being in the amount of pain he was supposed to be in. But that was Sebastian. His unnatural amounts of concentration, his sheer _bloody-mindedness_ , had been one of the main reasons Jim had hired him in the first place.

Jim put the glass back and cocked his head. Sebastian was still frowning, mouth thin, breathing laboured.

“You were _shot_ ,” Jim said, coldly. He reached out and put his hand flat on the bandaged wound.

The beeping sped up again, and Seb's breathing followed in tempo. He didn't say anything, though, nor did he look away from Jim's face.

Jim let go. “Don't do it again,” he said, softly, and then he switched the morphine back on.

Seb's eyes fell closed again and his breathing eased. Jim leaned his chin on his hand and watched as Seb fell back into chemically-induced slumber.

He'd be back soon enough.

 

 

4

In all the years Sebastian had been living with Jim he had never once seen him fall asleep.

Ages ago Seb had developed the soldier’s skill of nodding off pretty much where he stood, a necessity when your opportunities for safe sleep were few and far between. Even now, when he spent almost every night on a high-quality feather mattress in a flat so well-guarded it might as well be a fortress, there was apparently a small part of his subconscious that believed in _grab sleep whenever you can_. Only rarely did he toss and turn, and even then it tended to be because Jim wasn’t there.

Jim's absences always left him edgy.

But what that meant was… Well, he’d seen Jim sleeping, he’d seen him wake up – in states ranging from wide-eyed and panicked to smiling and drowsy – but not once had he seen Jim when he was drifting off, when breathing slowed and the body relaxed and he slid into that ineffable other state of consciousness.

And it felt wrong that this was the moment when he did. Like a privilege he'd stolen instead of earned.

Jim jerked in Seb's arms and opened his eyes, looking hunted. “Where - ”

“Easy. You're home.”

“Yes.” He licked his lips and blinked, once, twice. “Home,” he muttered. “ _Home_.”

Seb sat up a little straighter and Jim burrowed against his shoulder, fingers digging hard into Seb's forearm.

Sebastian had never been afraid of Jim – cautious, unnerved, yes, but not _afraid –_ but now Jim was sounding increasingly like he'd lost his mind and it was getting to him.

He put his hand on the nape of Jim's neck. Jim went limp, his breathing going deeper. He made a small smacking noise and wriggled, as if he was trying to get even closer to Seb, steal his body heat.

_Go on_ , Seb thought. _Please_.

But once again Jim woke up, with a whole-body jolt that felt a bit like the start of a seizure. He lifted his head with a quick reptilian movement and took in the room, wide-eyed, panting.

“You're safe,” Sebastian said, for what felt like the thousandth time this night. “You're home. They've released you, you're not in prison anymore. You're safe, alright, so you can _stop –_ ” He bit his tongue. Tightened his arm around Jim's shoulders and pulled him closer, Jim's ear resting on his chest.

Jim slowly relaxed again, eyes drooping, leaving the room behind and falling back into his own mind.

Where things lurked he couldn't stand to be with for anything beyond a minute.

“Please,” Seb whispered, knowing it was fruitless. He ran his hand over his eyes and sighed. Any second now...

And Jim jolted awake again.

 

 

5

Seb had drunk himself to sleep.

Jim turned his nose up at the smell of alcohol and vomit and old sweat. Probably soaked into the carpet by now, another one for the bin.

He stepped a little closer. Seb was snoring loudly, curled up in foetal position. At least he'd had the sense to lie on his side and avoid choking on his own vomit - even when stinking drunk he didn't lose his characteristic pragmatic streak.

Even so, he looked deeply pathetic.

Jim nudged him with his foot. “Wake up,” he snapped.

No response.

Jim rolled his eyes and kicked. Sebastian jolted awake with a snort. He blinked, disoriented, before he focused blearily on Jim.

“Oh,” he said, voice rough. “So you're here. How _kind_ of you to _honour me_ with your prsh- presence.”

“Get up and get into bed,” Jim said, irritated. “Or wash yourself first.”

“Fuck off,” Seb said, and he rolled over. A moment later the sound of snoring filled the room again.

Jim stepped over Sebastian's prone form and leaned in the doorway, looking down at him. He really did look like shit: unshaven and sickly pale, clothes stained with god knows what, knuckles and face bruised and split. He must have snapped, again, gone out on an alcohol-and-violence-drenched spree to deal with the feelings he had no other way of handling.

Jim sighed and sat down on the floor, watching Seb sleep. He reached out as if to touch, then hesitated, fingers hovering less than an inch from Seb's rough cheek. One second, two, fingertips tingling with the feel of Seb's breath - and then he drew his hand back again.

This gradual drawn-out self-destruction had to run its course, simple as that. And all he could do was stand back and let it happen.

Even though strangely, unexpectedly, it did hurt a little.

 

 

6

Jim was smiling.

It was, beyond a doubt, a smile. He had sounded so relieved at the end, after all. Relaxed, at peace, in a way he'd never had before, something Seb had heard even over the speaker.

Seb leaned his chin on his knees and watched some more.

It hadn't sunk in yet. Funny, really. With the amount of dead bodies he'd seen, you'd think he would've grown used to death by now. But no, even now he was still waiting for Jim to sit up and transform that disturbingly peaceful smile into a mocking grin, wipe the blood from his head, roll his eyes at Sebastian's terror.

Not going to happen, of course. He had seen the bits of brain lying scattered around, and he knew enough about headshots to make an educated guess what the back of Jim's head would look like right now. No coming back from that, not even Jim could pull that off.

“Bastard,” he said softly.

He felt like he should cry. Or scream, or swear revenge, or anything like that. Instead, he just felt numb. Like something –

Like his mind had decided this was too much to deal with and had shut itself down.

“Wake up,” he said. No reply, no movement, nothing but the wind messing up the few strands of hair that weren’t sticking together with dried blood. “Please. Wake – ” His voice broke.

Still no tears, though, no grief. Not yet.

“Wake up,” he whispered, staring at the dark eyes, the twisted smile. 

A gust of wind hit his face, bringing with it the smell of blood and cordite.

There was no reply.

 


End file.
